Chapter 2 - The Price of Oxygen
The private medical wing beneath the Ashford estate did not look like a hospital. It looked like a vault built by someone who expected the world to end outside its steel doors. There were no fluorescent tubes humming overhead, only warm, recessed LED lights that cast long shadows across marble floors. The air smelled of clean linen, iodine, and cold leather.
Dr. Richard Vance—a man who had spent twenty years stitching up men who had been shot in alleyways and burned in warehouse fires—stepped away from the examination table. He pulled off his latex gloves with a sharp snap and tossed them into a silver bin.
Dominic Ashford stood by the reinforced glass partition, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark trousers. He had stripped off his suit jacket hours ago. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark ink of old Syndicate tattoos curling around his wrists.
"She’s malnourished," Vance said softly, pulling a pair of reading glasses from his pocket. "Severe dehydration. Two cracked ribs on the left side, a hairline fracture in her right wrist, and systemic bruising consistent with blunt force trauma over a period of at least two weeks."
Dominic’s eyes remained fixed on the woman lying behind the glass. Her face was pale against the white sheets, her dark brown hair spread out like ink across the pillow. An IV line was taped to her uninjured hand, dripping fluids and painkillers directly into her bloodstream.
"And her eye?" Dominic asked, his voice low and flat.
"Superficial hematoma. It’ll heal without permanent damage to her vision," Vance replied. He paused, his sharp eyes lingering on Dominic’s rigid posture. "The psychological damage, however... that's a different story. Dominic, whoever had her wasn't trying to extract information. They were breaking her. Systematically."
"Caldwell," Dominic muttered.
"There were chemical burns on her ankles," Vance added, dropping his voice even lower. "Industrial lye. The kind Vincent Caldwell uses in his textile processing plants down on the river."
A heavy silence settled over the room. Behind them, the double doors clicked open, and Marco stepped inside. His face was set in hard lines, his tactical jacket still damp from the midnight rain outside.
"The warehouse is burned," Marco said quietly. "Ten minutes after we left, Caldwell’s cleanup crew hit the site with thermite bombs. The whole block is ash. The police won't even investigate—the precinct captain already filed it as an electrical fire."
Dominic didn't turn around. "And Terrence Cole?"
"Vanished. Either Caldwell buried him under the floorboards before we arrived, or Cole set us up to find her."
Dominic turned his gaze back to the woman through the glass. She moved slightly in her sleep, her brow furrowing as if caught in a nightmare, her fingers twitching against the crisp cotton sheet.
"She knew my name," Dominic said softly.
"Everyone knows the Ashford name in this city, Boss," Marco reasoned, leaning against the wall. "You control the docks, the concrete plants, and half the city council."
"No," Dominic said, stepping up to the glass. "She didn't react to the name Ashford. She reacted when I said Ash. Only people inside the old family circle knew my father called me that before he died. She’s not just a victim, Marco. She’s a piece of the puzzle Caldwell dropped in my lap."
He pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped into the sterile room.
The sound of his shoes against the floor made her eyes snap open instantly. The monitor beside her bed spiked, her heart rate jumping from sixty to one hundred and ten in a split second. She tried to pull back, her elbow digging into the mattress, but the pain in her cracked ribs caught her throat, forcing a small, desperate gasp from her lips.
"Easy," Dominic said, stopping five feet from the bed. He didn't reach for her. He raised his hands slightly, palms open, letting her see that he carried no weapon. "You're safe."
Her good eye scanned his face, the dark brown iris sharp and calculating despite the fog of narcotics in her system. She looked at his rolled-up sleeves, the ink on his forearms, and the faint scar running along the side of his jawline.
"No one is safe in this city," she rasped, her throat dry as sand. "Least of all near an Ashford."
Dominic brought a small chair over and sat down, resting his forearms on his knees. "Dr. Vance gave you something for the pain. It’ll help you sleep."
"I don't want to sleep," she whispered, her gaze darting toward the IV line in her arm as if it were a leash. "When I sleep, I'm back in the basement."
"You're in the basement of my estate in Highland Park," Dominic said directly. "There are twelve armed men on the perimeter, iron gates at the entrance, and three attack dogs in the courtyard. Vincent Caldwell couldn't get through those gates with an armored convoy."
She let out a dry, bitter sound that was meant to be a laugh. "You think walls stop Vincent? He built the foundation of this city's underbelly, Ashford. He doesn't knock on doors. He rots them from the inside out."
Dominic leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto hers with absolute intensity. "Then give me a reason to tear his foundation down."
She went rigid. The blanket slid down slightly, revealing the fresh white bandages wrapped around her ribs and collarbone.
"What is your name?" Dominic asked softly.
She swallowed hard, her chest heaving as she fought against the pain of her breathing. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.
"Elena," she finally whispered. "Elena Vance."
Dominic’s brow furrowed slightly. He glanced over his shoulder toward Dr. Vance, who was standing near the doorway, but the doctor shook his head—he had no relation to her.
"Elena," Dominic repeated, testing the weight of the name on his tongue. "What were you doing in Caldwell’s warehouse?"
"I was his accountant," she said, her voice trembling slightly before she forced it into a cold, flat line. "For three years, I managed the offshore ledgers for Caldwell Shipping & Transit. I logged the ghost ships coming out of Rotterdam. I processed the payments for the city officials he bought off."
Marco stepped up beside Dominic, his eyes wide. "The black ledgers? Caldwell’s entire empire relies on those books. The Feds have been trying to get their hands on those files for a decade."
"They aren't files," Elena said, turning her head to look at Dominic. "They’re encrypted drives. Three of them. And six weeks ago, I stole them."
A cold wind seemed to sweep through the room. Dominic’s posture didn't change, but his eyes narrowed to sharp slits.
"You stole from Vincent Caldwell," Dominic stated. "A man who skins people alive for stealing a hundred dollars out of a cash register."
"I didn't steal them for money," Elena said, tears finally welling up in her dark eye, though she refused to let them fall. "I stole them because he killed my sister. He put her in a car, pushed it into the river, and called it a drowning accident because she threatened to go to the District Attorney. I spent two years gathering every piece of evidence I could find to burn him to the ground."
"Where are the drives?" Marco asked sharply.
Elena looked at Marco, then back at Dominic. The vulnerability in her face vanished, replaced by the sheer, stubborn instinct of a survivor who had nothing left to lose.
"In a safe place," she said quietly. "A place Caldwell will never find. And a place you will never find... unless you give me what I want."
Dominic stood up slowly. His towering frame shadowed the bed, but Elena didn't shrink away this time. She stared right back at him, her chin tilted up despite the agonizing pain in her neck and shoulders.
"You're in no position to negotiate, Elena," Dominic said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "I saved your life tonight. I brought you into my home. I am paying for your medicine."
"You saved me because I'm a weapon against Caldwell," she shot back, her breath catching in her throat. "Don't act like this is charity, Ashford. You're a mob boss. You don't pick up broken women out of kindness. You picked me up because you smelled blood in the water."
Dominic stared at her for five agonizing seconds.
Then, slowly, the hard edge of his face softened into a dark, unreadable expression. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his lips.
"You really do have spine," Dominic murmured. "Most people who sit in that bed are weeping and begging for mercy."
"Mercy doesn't exist in Chicago," Elena replied firmly. "Only leverage."
"Fair enough," Dominic said. He leaned down, placing his hands on either side of her pillow, his face hovering just inches from hers. The sharp scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint smell of tobacco and rain filled her senses. "What's your price?"
Elena looked deep into his dark eyes, seeing the ruthless, unyielding power of the man who ruled half the city's underworld.
"Kill Vincent Caldwell," she whispered, her voice laced with pure, unfiltered poison. "Don't arrest him. Don't ruin him financially. Put a bullet through his head, bring me his ring... and the drives are yours."
May you like
Dominic looked at her bruised face, her torn skin, and the cold fire burning behind her dark brown eyes. He reached out, his thumb lightly brushing against her uninjured cheek, wiping away a single stray tear that had finally escaped.
"Consider it done," Dominic promised.
